was, technically, on vacation, after all.
Boarding the plane, he saw that Brognola had anticipated his needs, as usual. An ICC aluminum case covered in black ballistic nylon sat on one of the eight comfortable chairs, and a Pelican 1780W HL Long Case on another. A quick look revealed they held a Mark XIX Desert Eagle .357 Magnum pistol and an RRA Tactical Entry 5.56 mm automatic rifle, respectively. On one of the two seats opposite where the weaponry had been placed was a laptop.
Mott quietly closed the door to the plane and clambered into the cockpit. “We’ll be in the air in two shakes, Striker. Nice to have you aboard.”
“Thanks, Charlie. Good to see you again.”
Taking the seat next to the laptop after stowing his duffel, the Executioner picked it up and opened it, settling it on his lap while the machine left standby mode.
The laptop’s desktop—which was from a proprietary operating system created by Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer expert—had only one folder visible on it, simply labeled Striker. Bolan double-clicked on it.
For the rest of the trip south, Bolan read through every file in that folder. The latest in a series of attempts by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives to get close to a Key West–based gunrunner named Kevin Lee had failed, a long-term undercover agent named John McAvoy had been found dead near an empty warehouse. According to McAvoy’s partner, an operative named Lola Maxwell, McAvoy had believed the warehouse to be one of Lee’s main stashes for illegal weaponry he wanted to move, but McAvoy was made, and the warehouse cleaned out. The forensics report from the warehouse didn’t provide any useful evidence. And a dead body was left behind to take the rap.
McAvoy had gotten much deeper than any previous undercover operative. His identity was known only to his handler, who had specifically been given autonomy to pick his own agent in the hopes of avoiding a leak. Still, he was made and executed.
BATF had a leak. Bolan’s job was to find the leak and plug it once and for all.
Bolan knew both Maxwell and McAvoy by reputation. The latter was a solid agent with a good record, including an impressive bust of an operation working out of Chicago during his days as a CPD detective, after which BATF recruited him. He would be sorely missed.
Maxwell was more of a wild card. A sheriff’s deputy in Monroe County, Florida, she moved on to the CIA and then became a freelance operative much like Bolan himself, though with less latitude, secrecy, or support than Bolan enjoyed. The CIA let her go for reasons undisclosed, at a time when the presidency changed hands from one political party to another. That meant that either she screwed up in such a way that was embarrassing to the company, or it was a political move by a new commander in chief putting his mark on things. Or, possibly, both.
According to the memo from Brognola that led off the documents in the file folder, Bolan was to work with Maxwell to uncover the leak and put Lee away. The higher-ups at BATF were not thrilled about it, according to Brognola, but knew that they had to get their own house in order first.
After the plane landed smoothly on the short runway at Key West’s small airport—it received the rather outré designation of Key West International Airport by virtue of its proximity to Central and South America—Bolan took the two cases, but left the laptop. He’d tapped the special key that would wipe the hard drive.
In the small waiting area near the two small baggage claim stations Bolan spotted a large man with a round, bald head, huge arms that ended in wide shoulders, a barrel chest, squat legs, and no discernible neck, who seemed to have spotted him, also. Despite the man’s size, Bolan couldn’t detect an ounce of fat on him—easily done, as he was wearing a skintight muscle shirt and shorts. The Executioner noticed that the large man walked with a slightly odd gait and his right arm stuck out a bit farther from his side than his left. He was a man who was used to walking with a shoulder holster, and who didn’t have it on because airport security would’ve been all over him.
Bolan readied himself as the man walked toward him. If this guy was one of Lee’s men, it didn’t bode well for this assignment. An op that began with a firefight five minutes after Bolan landed meant big trouble. Also, any leak had to have been tugboat-size if the Executioner’s own involvement was known by his target only a couple hours after he got the mission.
The man walked up to Bolan and said, “Are you Mr. Cooper? I’m Mr. Faraday. I’m here to take you to Lola.”
“Any particular reason why I should believe you?” Bolan asked.
Faraday was now standing close to Bolan. He was half a head shorter than the Executioner, but twice as wide. Still, Bolan had taken down bigger opponents unarmed, and he had his SIG-Sauer handy if he needed it. For that matter, he had two solid gun cases, one in either hand, both of which would make excellent blunt instruments should the need arise.
Then Faraday whispered the word “Galleria.”
From his airplane reading, Bolan knew that was the BATF code word for McAvoy’s op. In and of itself, it didn’t prove as much as Faraday probably thought it did. If there was a leak, then McAvoy’s code word might well have been common knowledge in Lee’s organization.
Plus, Faraday’s name appeared nowhere in that same airplane reading, which had included a full dossier on Lola Maxwell.
Still and all, Bolan was willing to go along with Faraday for the time being, if for no other reason than to gather information.
He followed Faraday out to the sun-drenched parking lot, where he led them to a 1965 Mustang convertible.
Bolan’s hopes for this mission continued to plummet. A cherry-red Mustang was hardly the most inconspicuous vehicle to be using for an undercover op. And if it was part of Maxwell’s cover, should she really have sent it out to pick him up?
Faraday squeezed his massive frame into the Mustang, which also went some way toward explaining the choice of car: Faraday’s bulk would not have fit comfortably in a more modern sedan. Of course, sedans were hardly the only option, and the prevalence of SUVs made that a far more inconspicuous mode of transport.
Bolan slid quietly into the passenger seat after placing his duffel and gun cases in the backseat. As Faraday drove out onto a road that ran alongside the Gulf of Mexico, Bolan saw that this was hardly the only vintage car around. That mitigated the problem, but hardly solved it.
Gazing past Faraday’s head, Bolan looked out and saw the bright blue sky, broken by the occasional white cloud, the sun’s brightness doubled by reflecting off the blue-with-whitecaps water of the Gulf. The water was also filled with boats of all kinds, ranging from small yachts to sailboats to motorboats very similar to the one he was using for fishing in Michigan earlier this day. Other, smaller boats were used to drag parasailers through the sky.
The road came to an L intersection, and the Mustang continued on it, turning right. Faraday navigated through several other streets, which contained various houses colored in pastels. A large number were new construction, due to the devastation wrought by Hurricane Katrina, though Bolan noted that they were still in the same style as the ones that were constructed in the nineteenth century when Key West was a major port of call and the wrecking industry was at its peak.
The Mustang pulled into the driveway of a bungalow on Whitehead Street. It was white with blue trim.
Before going inside, Bolan removed his Desert Eagle from its case, assembling it in just a few moments.
“You
